


This Is What I Live For

by junsnow



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arguing, But like...HOT arguing, F/M, Jealous!Sansa, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Possessive!Sansa, R Plus L Equals J, Sansa is taking HER MAN ok, Sexual Tension, Smut, Some angst, a little bit of possive/jealous jon too bc why not, and the alayne dress makes an appearance, but mostly sansa, inspired by that new clip of S8, jonsa, lots of tension, s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 20:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: Jon returns to Winterfell and into Sansa's arms. Though her welcoming is sweet and warm, he can't help but notice the underlying tension, sharp and quiet, threatening to burst whenever she lays her eyes on their visitor.orSansa becomes really possessive when she sees the way Daenerys looks at Jon.





	This Is What I Live For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sansasnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansasnow/gifts).



> Well, we have all been inspired by the new S8 clip, so here is my contribution! Enjoy!

When Jon stares at the gates of Winterfell, creaking as they slowly open for his party, he can’t keep his heart from jumping wildly inside his chest. His horse trots over the fallen snow, coming to a halt in the yard, before his family. As soon as he dismounts, Arya is rushing over to hug him, and when he’s done lifting her off her feet, Jon takes a moment to see how much his little sister has grown. He hugs Bran, too, though his little brother’s reception is much colder. Then he looks up and sees _her_. His heart almost stops altogether, and Jon wonders if he would stay dead this time, or if some sort of miracle would bring him back again, crawling back to her.

Sansa is a most welcome sight. Jon feels a heavy weight lifting off his shoulders as soon as he spots her, and their eyes meet in a steady gaze. There’s a moment of hesitation, as there was the last time they met, ages ago at Castle Black, when they were both barely alive. But it’s not long before her face breaks into a smile and her arms open to welcome him into her warm embrace. Jon relishes the moment, encircling her waist beneath her heavy cloak and burying his face in her neck. She smells of lavender, the red leaves of a heart tree, and _home_.

He feels her hands tightly clench his shoulders, holding him close, as if he belonged to her and her only, and no one would dare remove him from her arms. He _is_ hers; wants to whisper it so she knows, but he stays quiet and holds her closer instead, willing his body to show how much he missed her. His beard must be scratching her soft skin, making it pink and tender, but Sansa stays exactly where she is, with her chest pressed so tightly against his that Jon feels a slight discomfort build in his breeches.

A sudden chill creeps along his spine, as if they’re being watched—they are, of course, the courtyard is full of people. He doesn’t know how long they stay like this, buried in each other’s warmth, but he slowly and reluctantly starts to pull away.

When he’s far enough to see her face, he finally takes it all in. How beautiful she is, with her flushed cheeks and long red hair, eyes shining such an enticing shade of blue he could drown in them. She seems even more beautiful than he remembered—but that’s absurd, he could never forget how beautiful she was. It was always there, in the back of his mind, at the most inconvenient of times. Jon shouldn’t notice this much about his sister, he knows. It was unseemly and shameful for any sibling, not to mention to a lady of House Stark.

Going beyond her beauty, he finally notices the steel underneath. Sansa has a sharp, fierce look directed at someone behind him. _Daenerys_. She stares at them with a curious quirk on her brow. Alarmed, Jon puts more distance between him and Sansa, deciding it was time to introduce their new ally.

Swallowing thickly, he offers his arm to Daenerys and walks her over to his family. “Your grace,” he says, “My brother, Brandon Stark. My younger sister, Arya Stark. And my S…my other sister, the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark.” Adressing his family, he continues, “this is queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, the first of her name. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the Realm.” The words taste like ashes in his mouth.

His siblings are polite in their manners, most of all Sansa, but there’s no mistaking the blaze in her eyes, quiet and cool, but challenging. Arya looks more serious than he’s ever seen her, and the change is somewhat scary. Bran’s expression is still empty, though no less worrying to Jon. What the bloody hells had happened to them?

Daenerys interrupts his thoughts with a cordial, “It is an honor to meet you all. Jon has spoken much about you.”

He hadn’t, truly. Jon barely shared anything at all with her, beyond nights with kisses heavy as duty. He looks down at his boots, keenly feeling Sansa’s glare on him.

Not sensing the awkward tension in the air, or perhaps in spite of it, Daenerys keeps talking, “I hope we can be friends as well as allies. I’ve always wanted sisters.” She smiles rather brashly, looking sideways at Jon before facing his family again. Jon wonders if he only imagined the twitch in Sansa’s cheek, before her façade was back on, regal and impenetrable as ever.

“Jon?” Once again, Daenerys’ voice startles him out of a reverie. Must she address him by his first name in front of them? “Will you show me the castle?” Her hands keep a hold on his arm, and Jon wishes she had the sense not to treat him so familiarly in front of so many of his people.

“If you wish, your grace.” He croaks in response.

Jon shows her the grounds and walls, the gates and bridges, the keeps and towers, but he avoids the godswood and the crypts—they were no place for a Targaryen. At one point, he thinks she means to kiss him, right there in his father’s castle, and Jon feels a slight panic bubble up his throat along with bile. Luckily, a pair of servants appear to inform him there was a hot bath waiting for him in his chambers, and another in Daenerys’ own guest chambers, which they were tasked with leading her to before it was time for supper.

He leaves her gratefully, not looking back. Jon is eager to wash away the grime of the past few months off his skin. Not that he hadn’t bathed while in the south, it just felt…different, as if something persistent was still cloying at his skin, no matter how much he tried to scrub it clean.

In the solitude of his chambers, he lets his head rest on the edge of the tub and closes his eyes for a relaxing moment, feeling the ache in his bones slowly subside, only to be assaulted by the sight of Sansa’s blue eyes and fair skin behind his eyelids. In his current position, with hot water lapping around him, he can’t help but imagine her naked in her own bath, steam rising around her… Slick hair a darker shade of red… Breasts peeking just above the water… His cock stirs at the image, and Jon grabs it with a grunt, willing it all to go away, but he only manages to make it harder, picturing Sansa’s dainty fingers wrapped around him instead. He surrenders and starts stroking with abandon, deciding it was best to just get it over with. Jon moans her name when he comes, spilling under the water, and feels the heat and shame color his cheeks in equal measure.

 

When it was time for supper, the entire household gathered inside the Great Hall along with all their guests, in a meager imitation of what feasts used to be like before Winter. Jon takes his seat atop the big lordly chair his father used to occupy, and Sansa, too, while he was away. The servants seemed ready and poised to start serving, but their lady was yet to arrive. So was Daenerys, Jon curiously noted.

The dragon queen walked through the great doors with a pinched expression on her face, as if someone had greatly displeased her, which could mean either something serious had happened or…something entirely shallow, as Jon had learned these past months. She took a seat of honor next to him, but the one on his other side remained vacant, waiting for Sansa’s arrival.

Finally, she did arrive, when Jon was sipping his ale. He had to keep from spitting it out in surprise, and almost choked instead. That was a new dress, surely. It was black and form fitting, inlaid with black feathers everywhere, and there was no fur cloak to cover the low-cut neckline. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much of her skin, much less of her breasts, and after noticing his mouth was ajar, he quickly shuts it.

She takes her seat next to him unhurriedly, as if she didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that every hot-blooded man in the room was staring lustfully at her, and signals to the servants that it was time to bring out the food. Jon feels his blood run hot for more than one reason.

“New dress?” He asks, rather bluntly.

She regards him coolly. “Made it myself. Do you like it?”

 _I love it, and I hate it_ , he thinks, but mumbles instead, “Aren’t you cold?”

“The Great Hall is warm enough.”

“I can give you my cloak if—”

“That won’t be necessary,” She interrupts, “thank you for your concern, Jon.”

He swallows thickly. Daenerys is huffing rather loudly next to him, as if trying to get his attention, but Sansa keeps it on a tight hold, unwilling to relinquish it.

Sansa looks at him pointedly. “Well. Aren’t you going to make a speech? You’re the _Lord_.” She says the last word with a touch of scorn, reminding him of what he had done; how he gave up the crown his own people had died fighting for to place on his head.

Clearing his throat, he rises from his chair and raises his cup.

“We may not have much to offer in terms of feasting, but I hope we can receive our guests with the northern hospitality they deserve,” Jon calls out, internally cringing at how dubious it sounds, but he soldiers on, “Once the Night King comes, we must all stand together, and fight for the living. _That_ ’s our priority. _Winter is coming!_ ” He booms at last, and the people raise their horns to join his words, though they still look suspicious of their visitors throughout the night.

Trying to get his mind off his pitiful speech and his escalating need to stare at his sister’s chest, Jon focuses on eating his meal silently. Before long, though, and to his annoyance, Daenerys breaks the silence.

“It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it?”

Jon frowned. It was not cold; he just said that in hopes Sansa would cover up. “It takes a while to get used to, your grace.” He forced himself to smile.

She looks crestfallen at his response, and Jon freezes. _Gods_ , she didn’t expect him to offer his cloak to her, did she? _Sansa_ had made him that cloak, like the one father used to wear. It made him look kingly; he couldn’t simply hand it over to the southern queen who wanted to rule them all—what would the lords think?

He mumbles a compliment to her dress, though he finds the foreign cut a bit inappropriate, in truth.

When supper is over, Sansa excuses herself and leaves for her chambers, escorted by Brienne. Jon watches her go with a tug to his stomach. To his surprise, Bran approaches him on his way out.

“We must speak, Jon,” he says with his new cryptic tone.

As much as he misses his little brother, Jon feels unbearably tired at the idea. He sighs. “Can it wait until tomorrow, Bran?”

Bran shows a hint of a smile and for a moment, Jon is reminded of the little boy who used to love climbing and wanted to become a knight. “If you wish.” His eyes are much more knowing, though, carrying a wisdom beyond his years. “There’s more than one path to the same end.” He says finally, already rolling away.

 

Jon paces in front of her door, uncertain if he should knock. _What am I doing here?_ He’d asked himself near a thousand times. He wanted to see her, yes, and talk to her, but what could he hope to say? _Where is your bravery, bastard? You’ve faced worse than an angry woman, formidable as she might be._

He faces the hardwood some more before lifting his hand and finally knocking.

“Who is it?” her voice asks from inside. Instead of answering, Jon pushes it open.

Sansa sits by her dressing table in nothing but a white nightshift, and her hairbrush stops midstroke when she turns and sees him.

The air feels thick, charged with something familiar that Jon cannot quite place. He can hardly breathe when he notices her nipples are visible underneath the fabric. Swallowing, he tries to gather his thoughts and turn them into words.

“You…Why isn’t your door locked? Brienne isn’t outside.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Brienne has been with me all day. She needs sleep as much as anyone.”

“You still need a guard, Sansa. Any stupid, drunken man could come in and…” He falls silent. Her eyes cut through him.

“I did have a visitor to my chambers today.”

Jon feels a sudden onslaught of panic and anger. “Who? Who was it? Did they hurt you? Are you—”

“Daenerys Targaryen knocked on my door and walked inside without much preamble, much like you did just now. She seemed rather disappointed to find me here. Why do you think that is?” Sansa asked him calmly, but her words had an underlying fury, burning hot and cold at once.

There was no sense in denying it, was there? She was too smart for that. “I…I’m sorry,” he says, too craven to even look upon her.

That seems to unleash her wrath. “You bloody _fool!_ ” She rises from her chair, slamming the hairbrush against the table. “This is exactly what I told you _not_ to do! Did you even _listen_ to me when I said it? Or was that beneath you, to listen a girl?” She comes closer, threatening to swallow him in her rage. “Did you just forget everything once you saw a pretty southern woman to put your cock into, and surrender everything _we fought for_ , like a selfish _idiot_?”

 _Selfish?_ Is that what she thought of him? Jon feels his own temper rise. “I did what I had to do!”

“All you had to do was negotiate for dragonglass!”

“She kept me prisoner, what do you think I should have done?” He nearly shouts.

“If you had paid attention to _anything_ I said, you wouldn’t even have been there in the first place! I NEEDED YOU HERE!” She yells. “ _We_ needed you here!”

There’s a hurt in her voice when she says it, and Jon suddenly deflates.

“What…What happened?”

She snorts, and it’s the most unladylike he’s ever seen her. “Littlefinger. We executed him.”

“You…What did he do?” He shakes his head to dispel the dark thoughts swarming his head. “Did he try anything, Sansa?”

“Oh, _now_ it matters to you, does it? You couldn’t bother to write a letter except to say you bent the knee to your new queen!”

He winces. “Sansa, please…Tell me. If he touched you—”

“Yes, what would you do, Jon? _You weren’t here!_ We handled it, Arya, Bran and I. He’s dead.”

His temper flares again, and Jon bursts, “ _I fucking care,_ all right? I care if someone touches you, or hurts you, or even _tries_ to! I told that prick that I’d kill him myself he did!”

Their eyes meet, and both their chests heave with hard breaths.

Sansa retreats, licking her lips. “He didn’t. Not since before my wedding, anyway.”

Jon feels relief, but it is short-lived when he registers her meaning.

“Do you mean…before…?”

She looks away. “He used to kiss me. I didn’t want to, _obviously_. That’s why he killed my aunt Lysa, because she saw it and got jealous. She tried to murder me, too.”

Jon doesn’t know what’s stronger; his hatred of yet another dead man, or his helplessness at how she’d been passed through all these monsters’ hands, one after the other, and he couldn’t save her.

He roars and punches the door in his frustration, and Sansa comes closer to coax him from doing it again. She wraps her hands around his closed fist.

“ _Stop_ that,” She reprimands. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I should have killed him,” he says, still fuming.

“Jon, He’s _already dead_.”

“I should have killed him _earlier_! If I knew…”

“You would have killed him, yes. Which is why I didn’t tell you, so we didn’t lose our Vale army before the war.” She says matter-of-factly. “Are you done now?”

He inhales deeply, letting his eyes trace her features until his fists stop shaking. Nobody twists him like Sansa, yes. But nobody soothes him like Sansa, either.

“That’s better.” Sansa nods. “You can go now. I’m sure your queen is waiting for you. Perhaps she even found the right chambers by now.” She jabs, and Jon feels it keenly in his chest.

“Sansa…”

“What?” She asks, still riled. “Isn’t that what you want? Go! Fuck her, marry her, and _leave_!”

“ _I don’t want her!_ ” He nearly shouts, and Sansa falls silent, eyes wide.

Jon stares into her eyes, entranced by the blue depths. He drowns, deeper and deeper still, to a place strange and unknown, until he looks down to her lips, so pink and inviting, and thinks they must be his salvation, or his doom. Jon takes the plunge.

He kisses her, swallowing her gasp as he backs her against the door. Sansa’s hands clasp his shoulders tightly, and she gives as good as she gets. It’s as if Jon can finally breathe, despite his mouth being entirely occupied with her own. His teeth graze her lips, earning a hiss, before he soothes them with his tongue and slips it inside her mouth. Jon’s eyes roll back into his head when he feels her tongue slide against his, and they moan in unison, a song of yearning and long awaited bliss.

His hips cant against hers once, of their own accord, and Sansa breaks their kiss to gulp air into her lungs. Jon rests his forehead against hers, feeling her chest rise and fall against his own. He meets her eyes, willing her to know, to _understand_ , wishing his words didn’t fail him, but knowing they always would fall short.

“Sansa… It’s _you_. It’s always been you.”

Something seems to click for her, because she blinks once and her eyes light up, and then she’s grabbing him by the hair and bringing his lips back to hers. It’s exhilarating, this feeling—that she wants him back, enough to kiss him like he longed for.

Her nails graze his scalp, making him growl and push her harder against the door, not an inch of space between them. His cock was already hard, and before he can even think of containing himself, he grinds against her. She whimpers, and Jon halts suddenly. He should be more careful with her.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I…”

“Don’t be.”

There’s a hint of restraint, weak and short-lived, before they kiss again, wet and desperately. Sansa tastes of apples and Winterfell’s ale, slightly acidic, but still sweet enough to make his head spin. He wants to know what the rest of her tastes like. Her neck. The skin between her breasts. Her nipples. Her cunt, most of all. Emboldened by his desires, he slides his mouth down her jaw, and sucks on her neck. Her scent is the most intoxicating thing he’s ever smelled.

His hands trace her curves over her shift. Her body feels soft and shapely, and when he reaches her breasts, he finds them firm to the touch, just the perfect size for his hands. Jon wants to feel her skin more than anything, and as if reading his mind, Sansa pushes him by the chest so she can pull off his cloak, jerkin, and tunic, in quick succession. Then, to his endless wonder, she slides her her own shift down her shoulders and lets it drop to her feet with her smallclothes.

He’s never seen anything half as beautiful or as glorious as a naked Sansa Stark. He sees some scars scattered across her body, and vows to kiss them all later, when they’re more at leisure and not so desperate for release.

Despite the fire burning inside her chambers, her nipples stiffen under his stare. Before he can snap out of his trance and suck on those perfect peaks, she pushes him onto her bed. His back hits the featherbed with a soft thump, and then she’s above him and taking his mouth, his breath, and his heart again.

Sansa grabs his hands and brings them to her breasts, silently urging him to squeeze them, and he does, more than gladly. She rocks her hips with a needy moan, and Jon’s cock strains painfully against his breeches.

“Sansa… I need…”

“Yes, Jon?”

He groans, “I need to be inside you.”

She makes a soft noise as she unlaces his breeches; Jon raises his hips to help her slide them off along with his smallclothes. When his cock is finally free, her mouth falls open slightly and her cheeks color—it would be the perfect picture of innocence, were it not for the unmistakable hunger in her eyes. Sansa grabs him by the base and strokes up slowly, torturously so, looking even more ravenous when he turns to putty in her hands.

“Please, Sansa…”

She finally takes pity on him, holding him in place so she can sink down and take him inside, inch by throbbing inch. Her eyes close for a moment, and she holds very still, adjusting to him. Jon feels her cunt fit him so snugly he strains not to move as well. When she finally does, Jon lets out a breath he’d been holding unknowingly.

Her hips lift and drop, letting his cock almost slip out before she takes him all the way in again.

“ _Gods_ , Sansa. You don’t know what you do to me.”

It was maddening, how much she had him wrapped around her finger, even before this moment.

“Jon,” she whines, and the sound is so sensual he could have spilled right then, rather embarrassingly.

“ _Ughn_ …Yes, love?”

“I…I want you to fuck me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses. _That_ ’s the most sensual thing he’s ever heard. He nods hurriedly. “Anything you want.” _Sansa… My sweet Sansa…_

She twists them over, leaving him on top of her body and wrapping those long, creamy legs around him.

“Please, Jon,” she pleads so sweetly.

“Yes…yes,” he stammers, sliding in and out of her slowly and gently.

He wants to pound into her recklessly, wants to bury himself to the hilt with every push, but he holds back, reminding himself she deserves better than another mindless beast. Nevertheless, to his surprise, she keeps mewling.

“Harder… _harder_ , Jon, please…”

He’s still reluctant, despite his desires—he would rather die than hurt her—until Sansa snaps, “ _Gods,_ Jon, I’m not made of glass! Stop being so bloody careful and fuck me!”

 _Fucking hells_. He nods and lets go, no longer holding back. Jon buries his face in her neck and fucks her like he’s only dreamed of doing, wrenching deliciously loud moans from her throat with each thrust that almost drown out the sounds of their slapping skin.

How could he live so long without being inside her slick heat? _Why_ did he wait so long? Could anything be wrong if it made him feel better than he’s ever felt in his short, bastard life? 

Her walls tighten further around him, hinting at her approaching release. It feels so good that Jon could _cry_. Holding her closer, he mouths at her neck, grasping her thighs and increasing his rhythm, until she’s crying out his name, so loudly he fears the whole castle might hear them. Sansa scrapes her nails down his back, marking him, claiming him as her own, and Jon does the same by sucking bruises onto her neck.

“ _Gods_ ,” he pants, “I love you.”

“If you ever fall into her bed again—” she sobs, before he cuts her off.

“I _won’t_. I promise. I’m yours, Sansa. Only yours.”

Sansa grabs his ass with one hand, squeezing tightly and urging him deeper inside her.

“ _Ahh_ …I’m yours, too, Jon. I love you.”

She finally comes, clutching him like the softest of silks, and coaxes his own release from him. Jon spills inside her like a flood, seeing wildly changing shapes swirl behind his eyelids.

 

They must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows, they’re laying intertwined under the furs. Sansa is on her side, half draped over his body, and she has an arm cast around him, rather possessively, which Jon finds endlessly pleasing. His own arm is holding her shoulder, sometimes playing with loose locks of hair.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, nuzzling her jaw.

“Better than ever,” she says with a smile, and Jon’s chest swells with pride.

“Looks like your neck is blooming with purple.” Jon traces a bruise with his fingertips, relishing the slight goosebumps his touch elicits in her skin. “Guess you won’t be able to wear that dress again so soon.”

“Is that so?” She smirks.

“It is a lovely dress, though. You can still wear it in the privacy of these chambers, I suppose.”

Sansa giggles and slaps him in the chest playfully. “Was that your plan all along?”

“Aye. Now I have you all to myself.” He brags.

“And I have _you_ all to myself,” she says, and her touch lingers on his scarred chest. “If _that_ woman comes near you again I’ll feed her to Ghost.”

Jon laughs heartily.

“Do you think anyone heard us?” Sansa asks, only mildly concerned.

“Perhaps.” He considers, wincing. They _were_ quite loud… “I don’t suppose anyone will rejoice of a bastard king—of a _warden_ who makes love to his half-sister.”

Sansa’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

“ _Oh_. You…you haven’t spoken to Bran yet, have you?”

 “No, why?”

“You should. I’ll be here for you afterwards.”

Jon doesn’t understand her meaning, but he brings his lips to hers all the same. The talk could wait. He had a more pressing concern, and it involved exploring every nook of Sansa’s skin with his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Jon really fucked her pre-parentage reveal. Sansa is shocked lol.  
> Let me know if you liked it in the comments! xx


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